Absent Words
by StoneandSilence
Summary: Written for the kinkmeme prompt: Watson realizes Holmes is the young man he and his disreputable friends attacked in a dark alley one drunken night in his wild youth, before his stint in the army changed him into a better man. Holmes doesn't know Watson was involved, but once Watson does the guilt starts to eat at him. Trigger warnings: Aftermath, non-graphic mention of rape


_"In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netly to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the Army."_

It is all Watson will ever write of his life before. For all the public knows, he sprung into the world fully grown. He will never tell of the events which surround that innocuous statement, the shameful secret that drove him into the Afghan desert like a wandering nomad banished from his homeland. He will never write of the blood his hands helped spill, the atrocities they helped commit. (Because John Watson works hard too keep himself off the page.)

Instead he writes of another; a brilliant man, a brave man, a cold man. A man of profound intellect and little warmth.

But Watson will never admit how that man came to be possessed of such dispassion. He will never write of how once, long ago, he'd been held down and the humanity ripped from him. Of how he'd been beaten and violated and left bleeding in a dingy alley, alone in the dark, and how when Watson met him again years later the boy had become a man, hard and cold and deadly, and Watson had not known him. (Because Watson has done all he can to forget that thin, pale boy with the curious and trusting eyes.)

Sometimes he mentions his family; he writes of drink taking his brother.

But he will not say how. He will not write about the guilt that slowly consumed his sibling (because back in the day the Watson boys did everything together, and he was always a bad influence) or the empty bottles that littered his desk until the day they were replaced by a gun, or the odd look of peace on his face afterwards. (Because Watson will never admit how much he envied his brother in that moment.)

He writes, in passing, of his gambling problem.

But he does not speak of this in any great detail. He does not write about what it is he seeks in the smokey dim of the gaming halls, in the company of desperate men, or how he tries to drown out the sound of his own conscious with the roll of dice and the shuffle of cards. (Because it is the least of his vices, and losing the rent gives him an excuse to feel guilty around Holmes.)

Most often though he writes of the man himself; of his brilliant mind, of his impossible self. Of his wondrous and varied accomplishments. And he notes just how far above Watson's own humble sphere he stands.

But he refuses to acknowledge that there are things he knows the detective does not. He will never write of who put the shadows in his friend's eyes, or the frost in his heart, or why when Holmes holds his head at just such an angle it takes ten years off him and Watson must look away, and excuse himself. (Because he will never remind Holmes of the one thing he has clearly chosen to forget.)

He writes of his friend's mastery in fighting; swordsman, pugilist, singlestick. He dutifully lists each accomplishment, praises the detective for his abilities.

But he will not explain why Holmes has spent so many years honing his body into a weapon. He will not write about why his friend pushes himself to the physical limit again and again, seeking always to expand the scope of his endurance. (Because if there is one thing Sherlock Holmes refuses to ever be again, it is a victim.)

He relates the story of how Holmes once bested a man in amateur boxing, going four rounds. He notes the man's admiration for Holmes skill.

But he will not mention the weekly fights at the Punchbowl. He will not write about how it was there, seeing Holmes limp from the ring torn and bloody with one eye swollen shut, that Watson finally recognized him for the boy he had been. Holmes would later blame the reaction on Maiwand, on memories triggered by the fight, and Watson will not tell him that he is only half right. (Because if he says nothing, then he will not have to lie.)

Except he does.

He has to lie every single day, over and over again. He has to lie every time he says he doesn't know why Holmes seeks solace in his bottles of poison, every time he feigns ignorance to the cause of his friend's black moods, every time he expresses surprise at the detective's cold manner, his distain for affection and touch, or the way he speaks of physical intimacy with a snarl in his voice. He has to lie every time Holmes calls him "good" or "faithful" and Watson doesn't argue.

He has to lie every time he picks up his pen.

But finally, above all, the doctor writes of his unfailing service; his life's mission of aiding and assisting and enduring his stoic, eccentric, shattered companion.

But he will not write about from where such loyalties spring, or the ties of guilt that bind him so tightly to the the detective's side. He will not write about why he suffers Holmes' abuse, his cutting words, his cold comfort. He will not reveal why he has made it his personal crusade to safeguard his friend. Why he rushes first into every danger, why he takes the lead in every charge. (Because one day he will die protecting Sherlock Holmes, and it will be twenty years too late for either of them.)


End file.
